


Dimitri is a Chef

by Antimonicacid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking Lessons, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid
Summary: “You used cilantro!” Claude exclaims.It’s a fact, but that doesn’t stop Dimitri from interpreting it as a compliment. He breathes a sigh of relief and a slow, pleased grin begins to stretch his lips.“I did!” Dimitri confirms. “I had thought it was parsley, but I guess I was wrong. Is that okay?”It isn’t.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102





	Dimitri is a Chef

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [Broildyne](https://twitter.com/broildyne?s=20) !! This was really fun to work on so I hope you like it!!

It’s near the end of Claude’s shift when he receives the text from Dimitri. The message is brief, it takes no more than a sentence that warns him to “look out for a surprise tonight.” Smiley emoji is, of course, included. 

Now Claude doesn’t care to come across as conceited, but he feels as if he has a decent grasp on his husband’s mind. So he’s willing to bet that whatever this surprise is will be one of the following:

  1. A stray dog that their landlord has explicitly forbade
  2. A new “fun” documentary set on some micro topic such as the Amazon’s water cycle, or Polish symphonies
  3. Or dick, possibly



All in all a pretty normal Wednesday night. If it’s a documentary then that means date night with takeout. If it’s a dog then that means he’ll have to break Dimitri’s heart (again) by telling him they can’t keep it before ordering takeout to fill the void in their hearts. If it’s dick, well…

When Claude returns home he isn’t immediately greeted by a dog rushing at him as soon as he opens the door, so at the very least that’s a good sign. He kicks off his shoes, leaving them in disarray next to Dimitri’s much more neatly stacked boots, and tiptoes down the hallway. 

The first thing Claude notices is the smell of smoke. It’s not thick enough to blanket the kitchen, but it still leaves a bitter smell in the air that he tracks all the way to the kitchen.

And then there is Dimitri. He’s wearing an apron Claude doesn’t recognize, and doesn’t seem to notice his intrusion as he continues to stab a metal spatula at  _ something _ in their nice nonstick pan.

“Are you cooking?” Claude asks. It’s a question that might seem obvious considering the combination of an apron, stove, and Dimitri, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. Dimitri–bless his heart–doesn’t cook. Not out of laziness or an unwillingness to try, but as a precaution to others. 

“Claude!” Dimitri exclaims in delight. He turns around, “Kiss the Cook” displayed prominently on the front of his apron, and arms open to welcome him. His hair is tied back, but what looks like some sort of batter still sticks to the loose tufts hanging in his face. He doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe he hasn’t noticed yet, either way it doesn’t stop the look of pure joy and pride shining from his face. 

Claude fits himself into his husband’s arm and sighs in contentment when Dimitri squeezes only a little bit too hard. Ever since Claude had gotten his new job a few months back his hours have been longer and his time away from Dimitri more obvious. It was good work. The type of job he had always hoped for, but he knew that his absence in the day bothered Dimitri even if he wouldn’t ever admit it. 

“How was work?” Dimitri asks while burying his face into Claude’s product heavy hair. 

“Same old, same old,” Claude says without much detail. He is far more interested in whatever Dimitri seems to be doing. On the stove top, their non stick pan holds what looks to be scrambled eggs. Their countertop is a mess, cluttered with several used bowls, eggshells, and potato peels. 

“Are you cooking?” Claude asks him again. 

“Surprise!” Dimitri tells him. “I made dinner, or breakfast actually. I’m not sure what the proper term would be.” 

“Well, is a meal defined by its contents or the time of consumption? Makes you think.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows furrow as he ponders Claude’s philosophical musings. “I’m not sure,” Dimitri tells him. “I suppose timing is more important. So, surprise! I made dinner!” 

Claude stretches up to press a kiss onto Dimitri’s cheek. It’s sweet that he would go through the trouble for him, and it would be a nice change of pace from the mountains of takeout that they usually default to. “Thanks, babe. It looks great and– is that pan supposed to be smoking?” 

“Drat,” Dimitri does a child’s mock up of swearing while rushing to remove the pan from the burner. Gray smoke rises into the air as Dimitri prods at the eggs trying to get them to unstick. Dimitri speaks without looking up. “It’s just a small setback. Nothing to worry about! Why don’t you have a seat while I- oh the potatoes!” 

Abandoning the eggs, Dimitri throws the oven door open and reaches for the sheet pan. 

“Oven mitts!” Claude yells while pulling on the back of Dimitri’s shirt. “You need oven mitts!” 

“Oh, you’re right! Silly me,” Dimitri says as if he had been reminded to grab his keys before leaving, instead of narrowly avoiding burning the skin off his hands. He slips on a pair of pink mitts, something else that is a new edition to their kitchen that Claude doesn’t remember buying, and pulls out the pan of potatoes. 

Claude watches Dimitri begin to scrape cubes of potatoes off the pan and onto a waiting plate, unconcerned as half the potatoes stubbornly remain. 

“Okay,” Claude says. “I’m going to go sit or whatever?” 

What appears to be an oven mitt clad thumbs up is shot his way.

He’s not sure if it’s a wise choice to leave Dimitri unattended in the kitchen, but he can’t think of a better option.

Fifteen minutes later, Dimitri emerges into the living room slash dining area. 

“We should get a real table,” Dimitri comments while setting the plates of food down on the cleared off coffee table. 

Claude agrees. “Especially if you’re going to be cooking.” He looks at his meal. It’s a simple breakfast for dinner combo. Scrambled eggs, slightly blackened toast, and roasted potatoes. Dimitri had even garnished the eggs with something green. 

“Wow,” Claude is impressed. “What brought this on?” 

“Well,” Dimitri sounds shy as he fiddles with his fork. “I thought that it would be nice if I found some new activities to do during the day. It’d be silly if all I did was wait for you to return. So, I signed up for a cooking class.” 

“That’s great, Dimitri!” Claude grins. 

It wasn’t that Dimitri was out of work, he just had… less of it. It had seemed easier for Dimitri to cut down on his hours teaching history as an adjunct at their local community college. And with Claude’s new position, it was more than feasible for him to do so. Less stress, less hassle, less to worry about. 

But it was also boring. There’s only so much work available to occupy Dimitri’s time now that he had switched to a three classes a week schedule, and although it was a break he had wanted, the passivity of it all was slowly killing him. 

Which meant a cooking class was, well, great! 

“How many lessons have you taken?” Claude asks. 

“Only the one,” Dimitri explains. “It’s bi-weekly.” 

“My favorite type of weekly.”

Dimitri laughs. “Well, we can eat now.” 

“Don’t mind if I do.”.

The first mistake Claude makes is choosing to take such a large bite. He piles scrambled eggs onto his fork and chomps down with vigor, unprepared for the explosion of competing sensations, flavors, and textures in his mouth.

The second mistake Claude makes is deciding to chew anyways. It’s an experience. That’s the most kind description he can offer up while still being truthful. He doesn’t taste egg, no, he mostly tastes salt and char. They’re dry, although that’s the least of his problems, and as he processes it with his teeth he can feel the eggs coat the roof of his mouth in small processed curds. 

For some reason he still makes the choice to swallow. 

“Is it alright?” Dimitri asks. He’s staring at Claude, worry creases the space between his eyebrows as he scans his husband’s face trying to parse out his reaction. 

“You used cilantro!” Claude exclaims. 

It’s a fact, but that doesn’t stop Dimitri from interpreting it as a compliment. He breathes a sigh of relief and a slow, pleased grin begins to stretch his lips. 

“I did!” Dimitri confirms. “I had thought it was parsley, but I guess I was wrong. Is that okay?” 

It isn’t.

“It’s unique,” Claude tells him. “It’s important for chefs to have their own signature spin on dishes.” 

“Right right,” Dimitri nods as he takes mental note. “What about the potatoes? I was worried about them since I had such a hard time getting them off of the pan.” 

His worry is justified. On his plate the potatoes are cut into varying sizes and shapes with many of the smaller ones burned to a near crisp. He spears one of the lesser blackened ones and pops it into his mouth. There’s a crunch. 

The flavor isn’t terrible. The flavor is almost nonexistent, which is a step up from the heavily salted eggs he had just consumed. Looks are deceiving, however, and although they appear to be overly cooked potatoes, they are raw in the center. 

This time he makes sure to swallow in as few bites as possible. 

Unable to think of a way to verbalize his experience, Claude settles for flashing Dimitri a thumbs up and saying “ _ MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM! _ ”

Next is the toast. The flavor is that of burnt toast. 

“That’s toast!” Claude cheerfully informs him. 

“Thank you!” Dimitri’s joy could rival that of a mother’s pride at her newborn son. “I was nervous about it.”

“The toast?”

“I had some accidents during my class today. Annette is taking the course with me and together we– Well,” He laughs without offering up any more detail. “Nevermind that. The important thing is that you like it.”

The sentiment is sweet. He’s bashful as he watches for each one of Claude’s reactions, clearly anticipating the worst, yet being delighted at the barest of praise. 

How could Claude ever shatter that happiness by telling him that none of this is strictly “edible” when it comes to food? 

Claude pulls on Dimitri’s arm, and without needing to be told, Dimitri wraps it around his shoulders and tugs him close. 

“How often do you have class?” Claude asks.

“Bi-weekly. Your favorite kind of weekly,” Dimitri reminds him while pressing a kiss to his temple. 

And that means he has  _ plenty  _ of time to improve. Claude can live through this. He can support his husband’s dreams of cooking a nice meal. Eating shitty eggs twice a week will  _ probably _ not kill him. 

“Oh, the juice!” Dimitri’s exclamation breaks him out of his internal pep talk. 

“Oh. The juice,” He fails at sounding equally enthusiastic, but fortunately Dimitri is too distracted grabbing a glass to pass to Claude. 

He stares into the cup presented to him and tries to prepare himself for what he’s about to go through. With a deep breath he takes a swig. 

It takes a second for Claude to comprehend what he is tasting. Something isn’t right. This can’t be right. 

“Dimitri,” Claude says. “This is… really good?” he tells him with complete honesty. 

It is good and Claude isn’t sure if this is some form of Stockholm Syndrome or if his taste buds had just been thoroughly fried by the over salted eggs, but either way it’s… really good? 

“Is it?” Dimitri asks. 

Claude’s quick to nod. “Yeah! It’s grapefruit right? But also has a bit of lime?”

“You noticed!” 

“And it’s sweet without being cloying and just the right amount of tart. Dimitri, this is really good!” 

“Thank you,” his voice is choked up with emotion as he squeezes Claude’s knee. “I added sugar.”

“A fucking genius move!” Claude congratulates him. 

Maybe there is hope for him yet. 

**Author's Note:**

> My twitter can be found [here!](https://twitter.com/antimonicacid?s=20)


End file.
